by Ann Swinfen
I felt uncomfortable at his mentioning that cousinage. I had only referred to it because I wanted to prick Edmund’s look of superiority.
‘I shall fare well enough,’ I said.
‘Are you sure you do not want me to come?’
I was grateful, more than grateful, for all Anthony had done for me, but it was time I learned to manage things for myself. I could not depend on him for ever.
‘Truly,’ I said, ‘you are very kind, but I shall fare well enough.’
He did not press the matter, and we returned to Gray’s Inn. He merely pointed out the narrow alley leading to the Black Eagle as we passed it.
The following day all the talk at Gray’s was about the war. With the king a prisoner of the army in Carisbrooke Castle on the Isle of Wight and the New Model Army seemingly in control of the whole country, everyone had felt that we had obtained peace for a time, if an uneasy one, although no one knew – not even Parliament, I suspect – what the future would hold. Everyone walked warily. Parliament, once united in opposition to the tyranny of King Charles, was now divided against itself, the Army and the military men, the so-called Independents, falling out with the Moderates, who were anxious to bring in legislation to rein in the king’s power but not to dethrone him. Added to the mix, word began to spread that the army had not been paid for months, and was existing on short rations. In some places they took matters into their own hands and raided towns and farmland for food. And they were not above pillage and rape amongst the civilian population. I had heard nothing from Mercy for some time, save for a brief note to say that she and Gideon were now married and were keeping his identity hidden by taking the false name of Chandler. The soldiers who were billeted at Turbary Holm were no danger to them, I was sure, but I could not forget the attack last year on the church during Huw’s christening.
Although the king remained a prisoner, it seemed he still had support in the country and was even dealing with those supporters through secret letters. A few weeks earlier we had heard of an uprising in Wales, although it was put down by the Army. There were rumours of the Scots invading England from the north. At first they had been as opposed to King Charles as strongly as anyone, both for his tyranny and for his intolerance towards their religion. It was difficult to believe that they could now be supporting him, but perhaps they simply wanted to make trouble in the north. It would not be the first time.
Now news had come that there had been a Royalist uprising in Kent. This was a little too close for comfort. Fighting in Kent was on the very doorstep of London. The New Model Army was spread thinly, in Wales, in the north, and in the southeast. There was talked of calling out London’s Trained Bands, the citizen militia, but they were scorned by the Army and any weapons they might once have had were now confiscated. At Gray’s Inn, Pension held a meeting to discuss what ought to be done in the face of the possible threat to London, but it seemed little had been decided, other than to place the Inn’s silverware in concealment.
Amidst all this fear and excitement, I could not forget my own search for the charter. I asked myself whether it would serve any purpose to meet Edmund Dillingworth on Friday evening. Reflecting on his proposal in the sober light of the following day, as I sat at my desk in the library, entering the details of the next parcel of books into the appropriate ledgers, I thought it unlikely that Blakiston would hand over the charter to him, even supposing he possessed it. And should Edmund obtain it, would he give it to me? I had been a fool even to suppose he might. Nay, he would take it home to his father.
Still, there seemed no harm in meeting him at the Black Eagle and sharing a mug or two of beer. I detested him and did not much like his father, but if we were to take the company of adventurers to court, we would need to work with them.
On Friday evening I set out in good time. Although I managed the mechanical leg a little better each day, I still moved slowly. I did not want Edmund to arrive and –not finding me there – to leave again. I had not taken the precaution of discovering where he was lodging, although he might be staying at Lincoln’s Inn, so I had no means of contacting him unless I went to the meeting.
Anthony looked up from the book he was reading as I prepared to go.
‘I hope all goes well. Perhaps he will have secured the charter.’
‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘I have no great hopes of it.’
He did not offer again to come with me, having detected, perhaps, that I needed to strike out on my own, but as I stepped through the gatehouse into Gray’s Inn Lane I was aware how dark it was growing and admitted to myself that I would have been glad of his company. The weather had continued dreadful, as cold and wet as many a winter, and heavy cloud had closed down over London, shutting out the last rays of the setting sun. I realised before I was halfway down the lane that I should have brought a candle lantern with me, for it would be even darker on the way back. In the City, householders are obliged to set lamps before their doors during the dark hours, but out here in the country there was only the occasional lit window to be glimpsed from a cottage. The few taverns along the lane burned torches to welcome customers, but they were spaced far apart, with long stretches of dark in between.
Chancery Lane was little better, although there were more buildings here, stretching down the hill ahead of me. I found the opening to the narrow alleyway which Anthony had pointed out to me. The Black Eagle was about a hundred yards down it, and I could make out a flickering light which I supposed must be the torch at its doorway, but no one else was showing a light in this unsavoury backwater.
I paused at the entrance to the alley, the hairs on the back of my neck stirring slightly. I did not like the look of the place. Why had Edmund chosen it? For someone with his pretensions to gentility it did not ring true. The Peacock Inn was not far away. That was a meeting place more suited to a Dillingworth. I should have suggested it, but I had been taken aback, first by encountering Edmund here in London and then by his unexpected suggestion that we should meet this evening.
It had grown steadily darker as I made my way here, so that I was anxious I might miss my footing in the rough alley. My confidence was ebbing away. Should I turn around and make my way back to Gray’s? I had no real belief that this meeting would profit me, but to retreat now would be the act of a coward. The man I had once been would have despised me for my present fears. I drew in a deep breath and stepped carefully under the jettied storeys which nearly met overhead, turning the alley into little more than a dark tunnel.
I suppose I was about halfway between the entrance in Chancery Lane and the faint light of the tavern’s torch when I sensed that I was not alone. I did not so much see anything or even hear anything, but there must have been some stirring in the air that alerted me.
‘Edmund!’ I called out. ‘Is that you?’
There was no reply, but this time I did hear something, the faint crunch of a boot against pebbles, instantly hushed. I stopped. There are cutpurses everywhere in London, but they tend to haunt the places where the pickings are good – marketplaces, the New Exchange, London Bridge, the public hangings at Tyburn. Once the theatres were excellent hunting grounds, but they were all closed down now. Cutpurses do not normally waste their time in deserted alleyways. I was carrying little that would have interested a thief, for my purse contained only enough coin for a couple of beers, and it was stuffed down the front of my doublet, a precaution familiar to any Londoner.
My breath was coming fast and I tried to hold it, only to hear the beat of my own heart, so it seemed, in my ears. I waited a moment too long. As I turned awkwardly to make my way back to Chancery Lane there was the thud of footsteps in the mud of the alley, and they were upon me. Someone aimed a blow at my head, but misjudged it in the dark and instead struck the base of my neck painfully at the collar bone. Another punched me in the stomach and I doubled over, barely able to keep my balance. I swung out with my crutch and felt a satisfying jolt to my arm as I struck one of my assailants, who let out a muffled yelp.
It was impossible to tell how many there were, but it was probably three. Although I managed a few more blows with my crutch, they soon had me down on the ground. One was kicking my head, another the base of my spine. I found myself wondering, quite clearly, how I should get back to Gray’s if they broke the mechanical leg. Would I need to crawl?
Then something harder than a boot hit the back of my head, and everything went black.
There was a guttering candle a few feet from my face. I remembered that I was lying in the mud of the alleyway. Why would a candle be standing on the ground? I could hear voices murmuring, but I could not make out what they were saying. My head felt as though a wall had fallen on it.
‘His eyes are open,’ someone said. I was able to hear the words clearly, so perhaps my hearing had not been damaged after all.
A man squatted down beside me, a complete stranger, and I became aware that I was not lying on the ground, but on a wooden bench.
‘Where am I?’ My voice came out in a croak and I realised that my throat was throbbing.
‘Bar of the Black Eagle,’ the man said. ‘We carried you here.’
‘Drink.’ I whispered.
‘Aye. Give him some small ale. Not strong beer. Not after that blow on the head.’
I knew that voice. ‘Anthony?’ I said.
‘Aye. Lie still and drink this.’
He raised my head and held a cup to my lips. It was poor stuff, but I was glad of it. My whole head and throat seemed to be on fire. And there was a sharp pain at the base of my spine.
‘What happened? I know someone attacked.’
‘Aye. Three great rogues.’ It was the stranger speaking. ‘I saw them hanging about in the lane when I came in for a beer, then when I heard you shout . . . I fell over you in the dark.’
I was still confused. I did not remember shouting. Who was this stranger, and where had Anthony appeared from? As if he could read my thoughts, Anthony pulled up a stool next to the bench. There was someone else standing behind him, but I could see no higher than his waist and I did not care to lift my head just then.
‘I was uneasy about this meeting with Dillingworth,’ Anthony said, ‘the more I thought about it. Why choose a place like this, down a dark alleyway, unless he had some unsavoury business in hand? So after you left, I fetched Henry Grantham and we came after you, just in time to be nearly knocked down by those rogues running off. We found John here, trying to lift you, to bring you inside. So the three of us carried you in.’
Henry. So it was Henry standing behind Anthony. But who was John? The stranger grinned at me. He was young, perhaps no more than eighteen, and very slight. He could never have carried me on his own.
‘John Farindon at your service, sir,’ he said. ‘Post office runner.’
‘I’m obliged to you, John,’ I said. My voice came out again in a croak. I touched my neck with my finger tips. It was very sore.
‘They tried to throttle you,’ the lad said. ‘Probably thought they had, for you was lying still as death. But when they see me, they run off.’
‘Good fortune to me that you came.’ I struggled to sit up, but found I was dizzy and weak. ‘Anthony, the leg. Is it broken?’
‘Your stocking and some of the leather is torn. I don’t know about the mechanism. It does not seem to be smashed. They were more intent at aiming for your head and your kidneys, I’d say.’
‘Dillingworth?’
‘Who else? Why would they lie in wait for a stranger? Not Dillingworth himself, though. He’d not want to dirty his hands. Men working for him.’
I shivered. But for the swift actions of the boy and my friends, I would be lying dead now in that filthy alley.
Someone else came into view, a big man, his bulk cutting off the light from the other side of the room. A fire, probably. It was cold enough for a fire, even in summer.
‘When are you going to get him out of here? This a’nt doing my business no good. This is a respectable house, and there’s blood everywhere.’
Blood? That must be from my head. I remembered that they had hit the back of my head. With a stone, perhaps, or a cudgel. I felt the back of my head and my fingers came away sticky.
‘Anthony,’ I said, ‘can you help me sit up?’
Once I was upright, the room swam a little until I managed to focus my eyes. It was a filthy place, one of those London drinking shops which serves cheap ale made of unmentionable substances, where the poorest dregs of London come to drink themselves into a forgetfulness of their miserable lives. The post office runner, who was respectably if humbly dressed, did not look as though he belonged here.
Henry was gazing at me curiously. ‘That is an extraordinary device the surgeon has made for you, Tom. Can you really walk with it?’
‘After a fashion. Though I fear it may be damaged.’ I looked in dismay at the rip in the leather of the calf just below the knee. I could see the strengthening bar within. Perhaps if the mechanical joints had taken no harm, the leg would still function.
The tavern keeper was eager to be rid of us, and I was just as eager to be away from the place. I wanted to ensure that I could walk. And I wanted to wash the wound in the back of my head. I could remember now the foul stink of the mud in the lane as I lay there.
Anthony and Henry helped me stand, and John fetched my crutch from where it was propped up against a table.
‘They threw this out of your reach,’ he said. ‘I only found it when I went back with your friends’ lamp and searched.’
I propped myself on the crutch and took a few tentative steps. I could manage, I thought, with the help of my friends, though I felt the leg was somehow twisted. Anthony put some coins in the tavern keeper’s hand, though he hardly seemed grateful. It was only now that I realised that there were other customers in the room, sitting well away from us and watching with wary curiosity. They were threadbare workmen of the poorest sort, and again I wondered at the post office runner coming to such a tavern. Had I known the sort of place it was, I would never have agreed to meet Edmund here.
The four of us left the tavern, John leading the way with the lantern, Anthony and Henry on each side of me, steadying me whenever I stumbled. When we reached the wide stretch of Chancery Lane, John held out the lantern to Anthony.
‘I’ll be off then.’
‘Can you not come as far as Gray’s Inn with us?’ Anthony said. ‘We would like to stand you that drink you never had back there. We have an excellent beer.’
The boy hesitated, then he smiled. ‘Very well, gentlemen. I’ll come gladly.’
It took us a long time to make our way back up Gray’s Inn Lane, and by the time we reached our chambers, I was shaking with exhaustion and pain. They half carried me inside and propped me up in a chair, while Anthony fetched beer and Henry lit a fire. It had grown so cold outside, I almost expected to see frost under the light of our lantern as we crossed the court.
‘That’s a bad blow to your head,’ John said. ‘You should wash it.’
‘Aye.’ I struggled to get up, then sank back again. ‘Later.’
‘Have you water?’ John was asking Anthony. Before I knew what they were about, Henry had warmed some water on the fire and John was washing the back of my head, as if he had known me all my life. I felt like a small child.
‘You need not–’ I said.
‘My grandmother was the wise woman in our village,’ he said. ‘I know what to do.’
We had no salves such as Mercy keeps for the small injuries which frequently occur on a farm, but at least the wound was clean, and John judged that it had not gone too deep. While I was being cared for, Anthony had laid out beer and the pasties he had bought from Goodwife Gorley, meant for tomorrow’s dinner. Indeed it was tomorrow already, for I had heard the church clock strike midnight. John seemed too shy to sit down with us at first, but with the beer and the pasties, he soon relaxed.
‘What I do not understand, John,’ I said, ‘is what you were doing in that plac
e. You seem a decent lad, and that is a filthy tavern.’
He looked very embarrassed. ‘I am not paid much, sir, and since my mother died and I lost our lodgings, I have to share a room that’s no more than a cupboard. I have to eat where I can. The brother of that landlord married a cousin of mine, so I go there sometimes to eat cheaply. But you are right. It is a filthy place.’
‘Well, it is my good fortune that you were there tonight.’
When we had finished eating and Henry had taken himself off to his own chambers, John said he must go too, and make his way home.
‘And where is that?’ Anthony asked.
‘Southwark.’
‘Southwark! You would need to take a wherry, the Bridge will be closed. And I doubt there will be a wherry to be had at this time of night. You may sleep here if you wish. There’s a truckle bed in the kitchen.’
At first the boy would have none of it, but Anthony persuaded him in the end.
‘He rolled himself up in the blankets and fell asleep at once,’ Anthony said, coming back to where I was still sitting by the last of the fire, too weary to walk the few steps to my chamber. ‘I think we can trust him. He seems an honest lad.’
‘I probably owe him my life,’ I said soberly. ‘Those men might have had time to finish the task if he had not come when he did.’
‘Aye, that’s true. Come, now, I’ll give you an arm to your bed.’
I was glad of his arm. The mechanical leg seemed to have suffered some harm as well as the tear in the leather. When I was sitting on my bed and Anthony was halfway through the door, he stopped and turned back,
‘What do you want to do next? Dillingworth must have been behind the attack, but was it because of the old enmity between you, or because of the charter, do you suppose?’
I shook my head. ‘I cannot tell. Both, perhaps. One thing I can say for sure. It has made me more determined than ever to find the charter.’